


Lights and Cheer

by symbolcrash



Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-23
Updated: 2010-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/symbolcrash/pseuds/symbolcrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Vortex, one loses a sense of when and where. It's fitting that the Doctor decides for all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lights and Cheer

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of shameless and innocent Four/Romana Christmas fluff, that which (if you don't swing that way, because even I don't occasionally) may be construed as nothing more than typical Doctor-esque mischievousness. Not related: it's the first ever Doctor Who fic I've completed, let alone published. Momentous!

“A stapler?  _Really?_ ”

 _Clunk._  “Really!”  _Shuffle._  “Now hand it to me, please, before my arm falls off.”

“You know that won’t really happen. At the very worst, you’ll grow tired.”

A sigh. “That was purely figurative. If everything I said were taken literally, I shudder to imagine the chaos I would invoke. I said ‘please,’ Romana, so if you don’t mind —“

Romana stiffly placed the stapler into the Doctor’s outstretched hand. She scrutinised the strand of lights which dangled from the other one high above her head — the last of them, she secretly hoped; the control room was, in her opinion, beginning to look like the Messier 78 nebula. “I don’t see the point. This is the second occasion of Christmas in what I consider to be a very short period of time.”

“Time is relative; you know that.” The Doctor opened the stapler and began attaching the remaining lights to the TARDIS’ inner hull, right above the exit. He shook out his arm. “Besides, I love Christmas. It was Christmas then, and it’s Christmas again now. If you don’t like it, you can go count your coins and play with ghosts.”

Exasperated, Romana turned away and began fiddling with a spinny dial on the console. As of now, in the time vortex, the little dial had no purpose; however, she attended to it as if it were the most important thing in the universe. “I don’t know what you’re saying half the time, but I’m beginning to believe it all translates to ‘I’m completely mad, you know, so lock me away.’”

The Doctor grinned and stepped down from the chair. “So it seems. Although I find that when I’m locked away, I succumb to fits of extreme boredom and the experience doesn’t last long enough to teach me to be sane.” He paused to admire his expedient handiwork: multi-coloured lights hung in cascades around largely perforated columns and blinked merrily against the stark, smooth white of the walls. “What do you think?”

“About locking you away?”

The Doctor gaped at her in feigned offence. “Careful, you’ll hurt my feelings. The  _lights_ , Romana — look at them. Really  _look_  at them.”

Romana did as she was told. After nearly thirty seconds, she glanced up. “They look like lights, I’m afraid.”

“You’re no fun at all.”

“Yes, well, it’s difficult to think of fun when one is trapped by the whims of a little box. I’m still not entirely sure it’s foolproof, your randomiser. What if —“

“ _Nog!_  That’s what you need. A good  _nog_.”

“I beg your pardon?” Romana took a step backward.

The Doctor tilted his head, then his eyes alighted with realisation. “Oh! My dear Romana. It’s a  _drink_. Perk your ears. K-9!”

Ever responsive, K-9 manoeuvered into the control room. He wore a floppy Santa hat over his ear probes and a creative display of Christmas lights on his chassis, at the sight of which Romana felt the urge to bury her face in her hands. “Do you require further assistance with the peripheral circuitry, Master?”

“Oh, no — I’ve worked that out, as you can see.” He proudly indicated the light display.

“Affirmative. All decorations are functioning as intended.”

“Yes. Well, you see — K-9,” the Doctor stooped down to converse conspiratorially with his robotic friend, “Romana’s hideously small reserve of Christmas cheer has dried up, and she needs to replenish it before she withers away and becomes nothing more than a clump of grump.”

Romana glared daggers at the back of the Doctor’s head.

“Suggest you initiate present-giving, Master.”

“No, no — that comes much later. Preferably when I actually have presents to give.” He reached over and tightened a dimming bulb. “Do we have any nog in the kitchen? I can’t remember if I picked some up the last time we were Earthside.”

“Accessing kitchen catalogue. Negative, insufficient eggnog to be catalogued. Retrieving data on suitable substitutions: eight eggs, one liter sour milk —“

“ _Sour_  milk?” The Doctor shook his head. “Never mind. Check the pantry. I swore to myself I wouldn’t forget it this time.”

K-9’s ears twisted beneath the limp hat. “Accessing pantry catalogue. Affirmative, condition of eggnog is approved for consumption and the amount is appropriate for instigating holiday cheer. Shall I begin the serving procedure?”

“No, K-9, that isn’t necessary.” The Doctor shot Romana a tilted smile. “What do you say to a little Christmas spirit?”

Romana looked up from her useless dial. “I think it’s my duty to remind you that we’re on the run from a malevolent force.”

The Doctor stood up straight and appeared contemplative. “Hmm. You’re right; we are! Seems to me this is the perfect time for celebration; he hasn’t caught us yet.”

At this declaration, with which she could hardly argue, Romana fought hard to suppress a grin. She was only marginally successful. “Oh, all right. Admittedly, you’ve been talking about nog since last ‘Christmas’” — the quotation marks were apparent in her tone — “and I find myself mildly curious.”

“Mildly curious?” The Doctor started out of the control room; his voice echoed from the corridor. “It’s a start! Come, K-9 — to the pantry!”

“Affirmative, Master.” The metal dog wagged his antenna and commenced a leisurely stroll after the Doctor.

Romana turned around, leaning her back against the console. If she felt charitable, she would acknowledge the beauty of the colours against the TARDIS’ crisp interior; however, noting the Doctor’s vague yet detectable condescension, she wasn’t sure she was ready to give him that just yet. Despite this, she found herself reaching over to the next panel for another knob — one which, when turned, dimmed the interior lighting. She twisted it.

The room exploded with colour. Even Romana, who had seen planets where diamonds rained from the sky and living asteroids subsisting off vacuum energy, was taken aback by the artistry and charm — if she looked close enough, she could see abstract constellations in the patterns on the wall; meteor showers choreographed by little blinking filaments above the archways.

She would say it was breathtaking, but a warm breath by her ear caused her to seize all of her own back in a violent gasp.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Doctor, I almost reacted quite extremely, and I wish you wouldn’t do that ever again.”

The Doctor grinned as if he didn’t hear her at all, then handed her a mug. “Nog!” he said cheerfully, and took a gulp of his own.

Romana eyed the mug with wariness and anticipation, wondering which emotion would reign supreme before she brought the stuff to her lips. She sniffed it. “This has alcohol in it.”

“Does it  _ever!_ ” Another drink.

Exhaling, she bit the rim of the mug, then closed her eyes and took a small sip.

The Doctor gave her an expectant glance. “ _Well?_ ”

Romana let the texture play on her tongue. She studied the mug. “It tastes like custard.”

“ _And?_ ”

She shrugged. “It’s all right.”

 

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


“Come on, Romana! You’ll love this one. It’s called the Charleston — Lindy rather than Savoy, because I like how the former sounds.”

“But — but it’s ridiculous!”

“There are approximately two point two million million million things more ridiculous than the Lindy Charleston; I can show you some of those, if you’d rather —“

“Oh, put the needle on.”

 

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


“Here — you pull this end and I pull that end. It’s simple! Like this — come on — “

“Oh! Well, what’s this?”

“Congratulations!”

“No, really. What is it?”

“I dub thee Queen Romana of the TARDIS Court.”

“That’s silly.”

 

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


“Gather ‘round, all — “

“It’s just me, Doctor.”

“Ah-ah-ah! I’m going to tell you a tale of hearts-wrenching emotion and temerarious adventure, and it will be performed interpretatively by none other than a Time Lord’s best friend, K-9.”

“Affirmative.”

“K-9, what  _happened_  to your  _nose?_ ”

“Explanation: I am illustrating, Mistress.”

“All right, all right, enough chit-chat — the tale begins in a reindeer village at the North Pole of the Earth.”

“Magnetic or true north?”

“Be quiet, I’m narrating.”

 

  
  


* * *

 

  
  


“And human children believe this nonsense? First of all — “

“You can write me a list later, Romana.”

 

  
  


* * *

 

  
  
The soft, continuous flickering of red and green pervaded the console room (the yellow and blue lights disabled because “they mixed for a ghastly colour”), and a slightly longer interval of relative time found the Doctor and Romana sitting side-by-side against one of the decorative interior walls, contemplating blissful idleness.

 

“If only the randomiser would take us somewhere like, oh, I don’t know, A-Lux.”

“The thing is, I’ve somehow acquired this preternatural ability to attract terrible things. Horrible things. Monsters, Daleks — a class all their own when it comes to monsters — and, oh yes, Time Ladies named - " he scrunched up his nose - "Romanadvoratrelundar.”

“Oh, yes, I’m perfectly terrifying.“ Romana stood up, stretching her legs and trying to feel her toes. “Hungry, also. I can’t remember the last time I felt this hungry.”

The Doctor stood as well, absently tossing his scarf over his shoulder. “Possibly the effects of the alcohol. Some bread, some rest, some water, it’ll do you w —“

“Reporting a small plant in the top right quadrant of your immediate vicinity, Master.” K-9 interjected, as politely as his circuits would allow.

The Doctor looked up. Certainly enough, a sprig of mistletoe poked innocently outward of the TARDIS’ wall. “Why, it’s mistletoe,” he exclaimed in a breath, sounding like he was trying — and failing — to appear as if he had no part in it. “Romana, do you know about mistletoe?”

“Not at all,” she replied, reaching up as if to pluck the mistletoe from its precarious hold. The Doctor swatted at her hand, and she jerked back, alarmed and affronted. “What was that for?”

“Mistletoe,” the Doctor continued, unaffected, “is a strange and powerful plant which binds two people standing beneath it with a pact — one they absolutely must carry out or face dire consequences.” He struck an imposing figure then, his most prominent features outlined by either shadow or alternating red and green. “It is — a kissing pact.”

Romana appraised his expression, not quite certain she should believe him. After all, if he were lying, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d stretched the truth to spur her to action. If he were telling the truth, then if she didn’t do something soon, she would have to face “dire consequences” — and she was certain that she’d had too much to drink to face them properly. “So,” she said finally, awkwardly, “what do I do?”

“Stay still,” he commanded, much like he did when their lives were at stake and you either listened to him or expired. “Close your eyes.” Romana’s breath caught in her throat, but she did what the Doctor said.

The kiss came, light and quick, against Romana’s lips. It was over before she’d even had a chance to acknowledge it happened at all. She began breathing again, and she opened her eyes to find the Doctor regarding her with the most solemn of countenances. “Is it — was that it?”

He kept the expression for a few beats, then allowed his face to relax into a wide, wild smile. “That’s it! We’re free of the mistletoe’s power. K-9, scan the mistletoe, just to be sure.”

K-9 allowed himself a few seconds to scan and process. “Scanning:  _Viscum album_ , hemi-parasitic, is detached and benign.”

“Good! Good. You see, everything worked out. Lovely little Christmas party, I hope you enjoyed it. But now — “ he announced, stretching out his arms, “I’m going to read until I’m sober. I recommend you attend to yourself in the kitchen; I guarantee you’ll feel much better.”

Romana looked stricken. “Is that it?” she said again, now referring to the “party” in question. Granted, she’d been on her guard all night, trying not to let too much amusement show with each of his antics — now, she wished she would’ve been more pliable. “It’s over? What about the lights?”

The Doctor strode over to the console and slowly turned the knob, the brightness of the room increasing logarithmically. “There we are. I think I’ll leave the little lights for a while. I like the colours.” He grinned. “You don’t mind, do you?”

She shook her head slowly, the feeling manifesting in her core that she’d been had. It was silly to think so, though, wasn’t it? After all, she’d had quite a good time — against her better judgments — and to have it end so suddenly was startling at the very least.

“Don’t look so down, Romana!” the Doctor said, in response to her undeliberate pout, “It’s always Christmas somewhere, somewhen — tomorrow, next week , last month — next time, I can show you a  _real_  Christmas party, and — “

“Doctor?”

He stopped proselytising, and Romana was visibly surprised that it had taken so little effort to get him to do so. “Yes?”

She paused. She wanted to tell him how much he’d changed her despite outward appearances, and how much she enjoyed the proferred learning experiences along their sundry quests and in the comfort — comfort? yes, actually — of his Type 40. Perhaps, also, that she hadn’t really minded what it had taken to break the mistletoe’s spell. A glance toward his features — he was frozen in place, almost, waiting for her declaration.

At last, she gave him a small smile. “Merry Christmas, Doctor.”

The Doctor grinned again; he always knew too much for his own good. “Oh, Romana. Merry Christmas.”


End file.
